IX. Fragrant, though pale, the Lily blows; To teach the female breast, How virtue can its fweets difclofe X. To every bloom that crowns the year, Learn hence, ye nymphs, her face to wear, SONG. By the Same. WHILE, Strephon, thus you teize one, To fay, what won my heart; It cannot fure be treason, If I the truth impart. 'Twas not your fmile, though charming; 'Twas not your eyes, though bright; 'Twas not your bloom, though warming; Nor beauty's dazzling light. 'Twas not your drefs, though fhining; No-'twas your generous nature; And stole my heart away. **** The CABINET. Or, Verses on Roman Medals. To Mr. W. L By Mr. GRAVES. I. O! the rich Cafket's mimic dome! Where cells in graceful rows The triumphs of imperial Rome II. Lefs II. Lefs facred far those tinfel fhrines, And relics, modern Rome confines, Of legendary drones. III. In figur'd brass we here behold IV. Or filver orbs, in feries fair, With titles deck'd around, Prefent each Cæfar's face and air V. Ages to come fhall hence be taught, How mighty Julius fpoke or fought, VI. Auguftus here with placid mien, Bids raging difcord cease; gates of War clofe-barr'd are feen, The And all the world is peace. Z 4 VII. A VII. A race of tyrants then fucceeds, Yet though we fhudder at their deeds, VIII. Thus did the blooming Titus look, Delight of human kind: Great Hadrian thus, whofe death bespoke His firm yet gentle mind. IX. Aurelius too! thy ftoic face Indignant we compare. With young Fauftina's wanton grace, And meretricious air. X. Each paffion here and virtue shines In livelieft emblems drefs'd: Lefs ftrong in Tully's ethic lines, With heighten'd grace in verdant rust, Each work of ancient art, The temple, column, arch or bust Their wonted charms impart. XII. All XII. All-glorious Rome, through martial toil, Shew'd every province, trophy, fpoil, Hence prodigals, that vainly spend, And mifers aid ambition's end, Who treasure up the coin. XIV. The peasant finds in every clime The scientific ore; Whilft on the rich remains of time, The learn'd with rapture pore. Each fading stroke they now retrace, Each legend dark unfold: Then in hiftoric order place And copper vies with gold. XVI. Happy the fage! like you, my friend, The evening of whose days Heav'n grants in that fair vale to spend Where Thames delighted ftrays. XVII. To |